A Tad Late, Sherlock
by HungerAndLust
Summary: "I believe that when you live, God, or whoever put us here, is typing away your story. When he thinks it's time for you to die, he passes it on to Death. But if Death is too lazy to kill you off, then congratulations, you cheated death. This is sadly not the case..."


"Hey, buddy."

The military doctor stands in the graveyard, alone, as usual.

"Look, I know you're probably sick of hearing me talk. But I just need someone to talk to. Sorry."

What do you suppose he's sorry for?

"I don't even know what I'm sorry for. I… just am. Sorry."

And who is he talking to?

"Whether you know it or not, you helped me in a way. You brought me back to the place I was longing for, and I never actually paid you back. But that's not how friendship works, right? At least, not to me. God, I'm blabbering again. Sorry."

John, please say something other than 'sorry'. Better yet, let the dead rest.

"I'm running out of things to say."

Then stop talking, John. Sherlock can't hear you.

"I'll just leave this here for you. Thanks."

Or so you think.

Oh good, he's leaving. Wiping away silent tears. And he left roses. Something you would give to a lover.

You and Sherlock weren't like that, right?

"God. You've been through worse. Get a hold of yourself." Self-support. Typical.

John, Sherlock's been there. You're guardian angel… sent from hell.

He was watching that, all of that. You're tears. He feels the same way, but he is Sherlock, and he can't feel emotion.

He's been watching your visits to his grave. Your flowers. Watching them rot. Like him.

But this time, he follows you home. Close enough for you not to notice, of course.

Why? No one knows why. Even he doesn't know why. Just an urge, I suppose.

You get inside your flat, empty, as usual. You open one of the drawers, where your laptop sits, collecting dust. When you look up, Sherlock's 'friend' (that odd skull you never understood) is looking back at you.

"What are you staring for?" You turn the skull the other direction. It's an inanimate object, John. Surely a doctor would know that. But then again, loneliness can really drive you mad.

You hesitantly get comfortable on Sherlock's chair and flip your laptop open. The title "The Personal Blog of Dr. John H Watson" followed by a blank space stares back at you.

Not much excitement now that he's gone, right? Nothing to write about. Your heavy sigh fills the room. The empty page does nothing to make you feel better. You exit the tab and open a next one.

With the cursor blinking at the web address bar in the new tab, you type in "thescienceofdeduction"

Why John? No one but you visits that website. Not since the incident._  
_

You read his last entry since which is dated 6 months ago. Has really been 6 months? Time does pass quickly, John.

You click your laptop shut. Then you glance at the wall. The smiley face he painted is still there, along with the bullet holes he placed there. You smirk.

You just realized along with missing him, you were bored.

Not much to life, right?

You get up from the chair and make your way back to the drawer where you got your laptop. You open again, and your gun sits there, untouched for the longest time.

You pick up the gun. The handle is smooth against your rough palm. Ammunition still in there, John.

Of course, Sherlock followed you home and realizes what you are about to do. He starts running.

You place the barrel to your temple. _If I count to ten and he's not there, I'm gonna do it. _

That's what your thinking, John. That he's not dead. You had no proof, no leads, yet you believed it. An unsolvable puzzle. Not completely true. Sherlock could probably figured it out.

_Ten._

Are you really doing this? Give him time John.

_Nine._

You inconsiderate bastard. Don't worry he's on his way.

_Eight._

Slow down a bit, he's Sherlock Holmes, not a marathoner.

_Seven._

Good, Sherlock's on his way to the front door.

_Six._

Whoops, Sherlock forgot his keys, didn't he? Starts slamming against the door. He could try the doorbell, but John wouldn't hear it. He's too deep into his counting.

_Five._

You release the safety.

_Four._

He's got the door open. Finally.

_Three._

He's dashing up the stairs. Beginning to start like a poem, isn't it?

_Two._

Better hurry, Sherlock. He turns the doorknob. But not in time for-

_-One._

"Wait!"

You see him for a nanosecond, but you already pulled the trigger.

Couldn't you have counted slower, John?

Black is draped over your vision. This is what death feels like.

I would know. I am it.

Back in the state of living, Sherlock is staring at your body, your blood flowing, a darker color than most people think it to be.

There's something in Sherlock that's trying to get out. Anger? No. A scream? Wrong again.

He tries to swallow it down, but it keeps rising up. Then he blurts it out.

_A sob._

Not something you expect from someone like Sherlock, but it happens. And when a sob leaves a body, the rest follow. Sometimes tears come along, too.

"Wha-" He's touching his cheeks. When he looks back at his fingers, they're stained with tears. "Not possible."

But it is, Sherlock. You're crying. You're feeling emotion. Something you lacked forever.

"No."

It just needed the right people to set it off.

What now? You know Sherlock.

He'd never consider suicide. Just to manipulate people, yeah. But it will never cross his mind to pick up the gun and point it at himself.

Plus, he's already died. This everlasting pain that will live on as long as he does, already kills him.

He thinks he deserves it, for not treating you properly. Like a friend.

He might be right.

* * *

Death sits at a typewiter. In a black suit, he pulls out the paper labeled "The Death of Dr. John H Watson." He sticks the paper in a folder.

He opens a notebook next to him, in which John's name is written as well. And with a ball point pen, he crosses your name off... and writes a new one.

"Henry Joseph P. Flaxens." This will be John's new life. Once his soul is taken out of that realm of darkness, it will be placed into a new baby. A new identity. New memories.

Death smirks. In a croaky voice, he whispers:

"On to the next one, then."


End file.
